James Bond 007 in Operation:NEXT
by Jack Hardgraves
Summary: A seemingly routine test flight of a revolutionary new fighter jet goes horribly wrong when the plane is first stolen then used in a terrorist attack. Present at the viewing is James Bond, whose search for the culprits takes him across Britain...
1. Prologue: The Tattooed Man

Prologue

Prologue

The Tattooed Man

Agnes McGregor raised an eyebrow as she repeated the name.

'Jane Doe?'

The tall woman in front of the reception desk nodded shortly. As she did so, flakes of mud and strands of dry grass fluttered down from her hair and settled on the rug she was standing on. The short, silver haired Agnes watched them float to the ground silently before glancing over the stranger for the umpteenth time that minute. She was a mess. Her white tank top and denim jeans were torn and covered with dirty marks. Her skin showed dozens of thorn scratches and bruises, and goodness knows what else was living in the bush that was currently residing on top of her head.

'And how long will you be staying with us…Miss Doe?' Agnes asked as she noticed the trail of muddy footprints that led to the front door of her bed and breakfast and shuddered.

'Just for tonight,' replied the woman (She was American – that explained a lot, thought Agnes). 'Could you kindly tell me where the nearest town is?'

She seemed to be completely unfazed about her appearance, which Agnes found amazing, considering how she had emerged from the middle of nowhere. She had obviously walked through the thick Scottish undergrowth to get here, though by the state of her hair she looked more like she'd been pulled through it.

'Well, the nearest town is probably Alresford, just north of here. It's about a half hour's walk, or there about. You can get a train there to Glasgow every fifty minutes. At least, you could the last time I ever caught a train.'

Jane Doe didn't seem to be paying much attention. She was busy craning her neck to see into the large, comfortable looking living area, where a blazing fire roared in a large hearth. The big sofas looked incredibly inviting.

Agnes McGregor rang a small, silver bell that rested next to the guest book that had been messily scribbled in by the new guest moments earlier. 'My husband will show you up to your room,' she said, handing over a rusty looking key with a slightly dog-eared leather key ring attached to it. The number 115 was written on it in thick black marker pen. 'Perhaps you would like to use our bathroom facilities too?' she added, hoping it didn't sound too casual.

Jane Doe's eyes lit up. 'That would be heaven,' she breathed.

'Then you'll be needing this to get into it,' replied Agnes, handing over another equally tatty looking but bulkier key. As she did, her elderly husband, Harold, arrived, still half-asleep from the doze he had been awoken from in the back room. His eyes perked up when he saw the newcomer though. He grinned a seedy, toothless grin, and as he spoke a slight trail of drool appeared.

'Good afternoon, miss,' he said in a thicker Scottish accent than his wife's. 'I do hope you find your stay here at the Alresford Bed and Breakfast most comfortable.'

'Thank you,' replied Jane Doe, watching the line of saliva curiously.

Agnes coughed loudly, a disapproving look on her face. 'Harold, take…Miss Doe up to room 115, and then show her where the bathroom is. Then come back down here and put some more logs on the fire.'

'Yes dear' said Harold. He noticed a large rucksack on the ground next to Jane's feet. 'Would you like me to take your bag, Miss?' he asked, already reaching down to grab it.

But the American was quicker than he was. 'No thanks,' she replied, clutching it to her chest. 'It's very heavy, but I can manage.'

Harold shrugged. 'As you wish, lassie. Now, after you, I insist.'

Agnes watched the scene with disgust as her husband used the opportunity of the narrow staircase to get a good ogle at the new guest's shapely bottom. She listened to the footsteps up the creaky stairs and then, when she heard the more than familiar groans of the floorboards over her, she carefully picked up the phone on the desk and pressed the quick dial button followed by the number 5. After one tone, it was answered.

'This is Mrs McGregor speaking. Our guest has arrived.'

Alone at last in the surprisingly spacious, aqua blue bathroom, Catherine Edwards felt she could finally relax. She locked the wooden door so that she wasn't disturbed and then turned on both taps of the bath full blast. Soon a good dose of steam was rising slowly from the rising water. Even now Catherine could feel her muscles beginning to bathe.

It had certainly been a relief to find this place when she had done. The previous two nights had not exactly been comfortable, attempting to nest as high up as she could in the largest, most climbable trees she could find. She had had little sleep; not just because of the discomfort she had been in, but also because of her trained paranoia to keep one eye and both ears open at all times.

This particular asset now informed her of what she had been suspecting for the last minute, for over the rush of water in the tub came the minute creaks of floorboards nearby. The elderly man was peeking through the keyhole, trying to get a good view. Pervert. In response Catherine removed a large towel from the heated rail it had been resting on and, with careful aim, tossed it towards the door. It landed over the thick handle, completely covering over the large keyhole. Catherine could swear she heard a disappointed muttering before the shrill tones of Mrs McGregor came from downstairs, summoning her husband back to his chores. There was the gradual distancing of creaks, then silence.

Content, Catherine moved to her dirty rucksack and began to pull out its contents. To one side, in a special hidden holder, she carefully took out a long knife, the tip of which was stained red. She went over to the basin and using a lot of soap and elbow grease managed to clean the worst of it off, though it would never look as good as it did after it had been professionally cleaned in the workshops back in the States.

Next Catherine looked through the small notepad she had hoped would be fuller by now, and checked the sound on the two tiny microphones and recorders that had been extremely temperamental recently – she would have to get them to look at that as well. It could be the signal had been disrupted by the very large amount of forestation around.

Finally there was the small zipped bag containing two tiny vials, a couple of pills and one plaster. The plaster was for effect, and Catherine had never needed to use it. She hoped that the same could always be said for the other contents too.

Replacing the items back in her bag, Catherine stood up and turned off the taps that were now in danger of causing the tub to overflow. After letting a little water escape down the plug hole, and testing the temperature of the remainder at the same time, Catherine stripped herself of her clothes, pausing before stepping into the temptingly hot water to examine her body in the full length mirror on a stand nearby.

It was a good body – a very good body, as most of her male colleagues had commented – but it was clear that it had taken a few knocks recently from the various vegetation escapades of the previous week.

Satisfied, Catherine got straight into the tub and immediately put her whole head underwater, leaving it for five seconds before surfacing, felling the dirt running down her cheeks in water droplets from her hair. She repeated this several times before feeling under her back for the plug and letting some of the already dirty water out and turning on the taps one last time to replace it.

Now she relaxed more, allowing herself a brief moment to focus on her next steps. Obviously while she was under this roof she would have to act as normal as possible, despite her rather unusual entrance. It had been clear that poor Mrs McGregor hadn't quite known what to say to her when she'd first walked through the front door of the bed and breakfast inn.

Tomorrow she would leave as early as possible, jog to Alresford and make contact with her colleague there, before catching the next train to Glasgow to wait for further instructions. She hoped that the lack of useful information she had found here would be enough to persuade her chief in command to let her come back home, though she found herself surprisingly sorry at the prospect of leaving the beautiful Scottish countryside. Still, there was always the very real possibility of returning when necessary.

There was one solitary window in the bathroom and this was directly behind Catherine now as she sank further into the tub until the water just came up to underneath her bottom lip. This looked out upon the large gravel driveway and car park of the bed and breakfast, where a small number of vehicles were currently parked.

Now through this window came the crunching sound of a heavy vehicle driving over the stones. Catherine's slight curiosity turned to a mixture of annoyance and fear when she heard large door slamming, shouts to a variety of people, running footsteps across the gravel, and what sounded like a couple of dogs barking. She didn't know how, but they had found her.

As she jumped quickly out of the tub, reaching for her sack and the precious knife, Catherine heard large stomping footsteps up the nearby staircase before the bathroom door was ripped open by a very large, very well built man. He wore a string vest and thick green army trousers. His thick bare arms were like a museum of tattoos, all depicting one kind of bloody massacre after another. His face, an ugly, battle-scarred emotionless face, stared at Catherine with typical blank emotion. He was the first person Catherine had expected to see and the last person she wanted to see.

For a brief second both stood looking at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Catherine glanced out of the window. Could she make it out of there? No, it was a clear drop onto sharp gravel and the area was now swarming with guards dressed in green uniforms and carrying either pistols or rifles. Catherine wondered what the other guests at the bed and breakfast must have been feeling right now: confused, bewildered?

Catherine took a chance. Grabbing the other towel that rested on the rail next to her, she flung it towards the tattooed man's head and then rushed at him with the knife. But he calmly swept her aside onto the basin and, with one swift chop of the right hand, knocked her out cold. He then slowly removed the towel from his face and dropped it onto the floor before easily picking up the limp, naked body of Catherine Edwards and placing her over his shoulder.

Agnes McGregor watched nervously as the green uniforms began to disappear back into either the small green van or the green jeep, both of which had private number plates. One said REX 1, the other REX 2. The large tattooed man then appeared through the front door, walked straight past Agnes and placed the unconscious body of the American woman into the back of the van. He returned to Agnes and handed her a plain brown envelope, in which Agnes knew from experience rested a very large wad of twenty and fifty pound notes.

'Tell your boss from me: anytime. We're happy to help,' Agnes said.

The tattooed man just stared blankly at her. Then Harold McGregor raced out of the door, clutching something in his left fist and shouting, 'Hang on, lads. Let her have something to wear at least.'

Agnes didn't know whether to be disgusted or amused that, of all the items of clothing Harold had picked up as suitable clothing for the girl, a pair of white knickers was all he was carrying. He walked back to her, grinning wildly.

'Don't want the lassie to catch her death of cold now, do we?' he said as ways of explanation. He turned to the tattooed man. 'We've had a few of your guests stay with us recently. Are we expecting many more?'

Again there was no response. The tattooed man just walked off, towards the open passengers door of the van, which quickly drove off behind its jeep brother, down the gravel driveway and on into the thick forest that surrounded the Alresford bed and breakfast.


	2. Chapter 1

Part One

Part One

X-542

1

Three Months Later

The large black car was accompanied by a solitary police bike, so that attention was brought to the larger vehicle but not too much attention. The journey from London had been faster than perhaps expected, but the driver knew from years of experience that the earlier his passengers got somewhere the better.

Up until the last fifteen minutes or so the journey had been a simple case of navigating the motorways, but as the necessary turns had been made the roads had started to get narrower, and soon quaint looking houses appeared on either side. They had driven through three small villages and a larger town centre by the time they reached their last right turn and the driveway that led to their final destination. They stopped at a chequered barrier, where a guard in smart uniform checked their identification papers both personally and with his superiors before he let them through.

They had come to a hidden secret deep in the countryside of Kent; a hidden military air base that was rarely used other than as part of old strategies as back up support in case a full scale war was to break out. But over the last month the base had been buzzing with activity, and today the car's passengers and several others would witness what all the work had been for.

Colonel Joshua Clarke of the Royal Air Force walked towards the vehicle as it stopped next to the large warehouse hanger that had been designated a safe spot. He opened one of the passenger doors to allow a small silver haired woman dressed in a smart grey business suit to step out onto the concrete.

The passenger door at the front of the car was opened by the occupant herself: a taller woman with short red hair, who was dressed in a black blazer, white blouse and knee high pencil-skirt. She was talking animatedly into a small mobile phone and carried a leather folder under her arm.

The car's last passenger also let himself out; he was a tall, well built man who looked in his early forties or late thirties. He was clean shaven and in a smart suit with plain black tie. As soon as his feet hit the ground he was looking all around them their surroundings. Clarke wasn't sure, but he felt he could see a trace of faint amusement on the man's lips as he did so.

Clarke saluted at the older woman, whose face seemed strict yet whose eyes sparkled with warmth. 'It's an honour, M,' he began, beaming, 'and good of you to come out all this way just for a mere half hour's show.'

The head of the British Secret Service shook his hand with a surprisingly tight grip. 'Well, colonel, if I am to believe what I've been told, this mere half hour as you put it will be a rather auspicious occasion. A mutual friend of ours hasn't stopped babbling about this new achievement to me for the last fortnight.'

Clarke smiled. 'Ah, yes. How is old…er…how do you refer to him again?'

'Q. And he's only sorry he can't be here to witness this himself, but the last I heard he was muttering about something blowing a gasket. My secretary, Miss Moneypenny.'

The red head lifted the folder as way of greeting before returning to her telephone conversation.

'We're currently having a spot of bother with our insurers,' M said as explanation.

'I'm sure you are,' replied the colonel, who knew all too well that the last thing the head of Mi6 would do would reveal anything whatsoever about her organisation. 'And the gentleman…?'

'Commander James Bond, a colleague of mine with much experience in flying fighter jets. I felt he would be an asset to my own personal education.'

Clarke and Bond shook hands. Bond's grip was tighter than his boss', and there was little warmth in his clear blue eyes: just the cold ruthlessness of a double 0 agent. Of course Clarke had no idea of Bond's career choice, but he still felt slightly unnerved by him and quickly drew back to M. 'Shall we…?' he asked, gesturing towards the open hanger.

They walked across the concrete, hot from summer sunshine, and into the reliving cool of the large shadow the hanger cast. Inside they passed a dozen or so men and women, all rushing about with pieces of paper or electrical equipment in their hands. Three large computers were set up on a desk near the other entrance, each screen showing a variety of different information. A nervous looking man in plain white shirt and jeans sipped a plastic cup of hot coffee as the group passed, occasionally bashing a few keys quickly on the keyboards.

Clarke led the Mi6 representatives towards a small stage just outside the hanger, where a row of uncomfortable looking plastic chairs had been set out. Seated already there were several RAF, Army and Government individuals, including the newly appointed Minister for Defence, Edward Lee, who politely waved at them before returning to his conversation.

As they sat down, Moneypenny still talking urgently on her mobile phone, Bond's attention was drawn to the large object a long distance in front of them. He had seen many fighter jets in his lifetime, and this one did not look particularly impressive, though it was certainly sleek in its design. He wondered what all the fuss was really about with this plane.

With an exasperated expression, Miss Moneypenny handed her phone over to M. 'It's Damien Falco, ma'am,' she explained, 'and he says its urgent he talks to you.'

M rolled her eyes, excused herself from Bond and stepped a few paces away to ensure more privacy. Unlike Moneypenny she listened more than talked, and seemed to keep herself calmer too.

'Falco…is he still with NSA?' asked Bond, remembering the problems they had previously had with the gruff, world weary American.

Moneypenny tutted. 'Honestly, James, don't you ever read my memos? The CIA poached him and he's now their Head of Operations.'

Bond smiled. 'Moneypenny, I make it a habit to read everything you send me.'

'Yes, and you also make it a habit to rarely reply.'

Before Bond could ask what Falco was calling about, M returned, handing the phone back to Moneypenny. 'It's all sorted,' she said, sitting back down next to Bond.

'Nothing to worry about, I hope?' Bond asked.

'Not for the moment, 007. Not for the moment. Now, is that the famous hunk of junk we've come to watch?'

M was answered by Clarke stepping towards a podium a meter away from them, clearing his throat, and welcoming them to the afternoon's "prestigious" event.

'What you are about to witness,' he explained, his excitement just showing on his face as he spoke, 'is a technological masterpiece. The X-542 has many of the same features as the jets we currently use in the Royal Air Force, but has two major differences. The first of these is in how the jet is piloted. In a moment our man will climb into the cockpit and place inside a tiny chip.'

Clarke fished into his blazer pocket and brought out a prototype chip. It was no larger than a postage stamp.

'On this chip', he continued, 'is a detailed computer programme that gives the X-542 its instructions: its destination, its task or targets, etc. As soon as it has completed its mission, the jet's computer gives the order to return back to base at full speed.'

'Why the need for a pilot then?' an army official piped up.

Clarke returned the chip to his pocket as he replied, 'Regrettably, as we are still in the last stages of testing, it is safer for all concerned for the pilot to be present. Then if anything were to go wrong with the computer chip, he can switch to manual. But our boys in the labs are as I speak working on a more efficient chip that will be compatible with the X-542's on board computers. And now to the second difference: the X-542 is the first forces equipment ever to be powered by Extronite.'

There was a loud murmuring in the audience. Bond raised an eyebrow and looked to M whose expression remained stone. Moneypenny seemed the most interested, leaning forward as if she would miss anything that was said otherwise.

'Did you say "Extronite"?' asked the same army official. 'Why all the secrecy? This is monumental!'

Edward Lee stood up and raised his hands for quiet. 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is perhaps no surprise really that the British government has had an interest in expanding the potentiality of Extronite. Over the last five years or so we have been working with Professor Thomas Extron on a number of projects, some more international than others. I can assure you we have his full backing on this project, and his sincere regrets that he cannot be with us today. He has a meeting with the UN which, dare I say, is much more important than our little show this afternoon.'

'Thank you, Minister', said Clarke as Lee sat back down. 'Now in a moment, our pilot will start the necessary procedures to launch the X-542. He will fly from here, through the skies for ten minutes and then back down onto the ground – all of which has been programmed into the computer chip he will be handed by myself personally as he climbs into the cockpit. Are there any questions before this?'

There were plenty, and many of them were to do with Extronite. Bond and M remained seated, watching the madness unfold rapidly.

'No questions, 007?' M quietly asked finally.

'I'd be interested to learn how they've managed to convert Extronite into jet fuel,' Bond admitted. 'Though I'm not too up to date on its workings myself.'

'Another missed memo?' asked Moneypenny sarcastically.

Bond was about to reply when a look from M warned him not to.

Finally the pilot appeared. To a smattering of polite applause he crossed the concrete towards the X-542, where Clarke proudly saluted him and handed over a small brown envelope which, Bond presumed, contained the necessary computer chip. Clarke then spoke into a radio microphone to the far off crowd of spectators opposite.

'Ladies and gentlemen, our pilot for today is Lieutenant Sean Rowe. Sean has flown for the RAF in a number of missions in both Afghanistan and Iraq, and has also been a test pilot for many new jets for us. Today's flight couldn't be in safer hands.'

There was more applause for Rowe before he climbed the ladder into the cockpit. The smooth perplex cover slid into place, and Clarke and the flight crew hurried back across the concrete.

Familiar sights and sounds reached Bond's eyes and ears: the engine gradually whirring to life, a slow crescendo of a high-pitched whine, slowly getting louder and louder until, finally, the wheels started to turn, and the X-542 started to make its unhurried progression along the runway. Faster and faster, louder and louder, almost looking as if it would never get off the ground before the concrete ran out until, catching all by delighted surprise, it rose steadily up and into the sky, over the far off fences and fields.

'So far, so impressive,' M said, whilst Moneypenny joined the others in applauding enthusiastically.

Bond nodded. 'She's beautiful, no doubt about it. Now let's see what she can really do.'


	3. Chapter 2

Part One

Part One

X-542

2

The last thing Sean Rowe wanted to be associated with was a traitor. He had fought for and served his country well over the long years he had flown for the RAF, taking on some of the more difficult assignments a pilot could be set. His personal life was very subdued; he had always put duty first and never found time to marry. There had been plenty of girlfriends, of course, but never one who could replace the same feeling he got when flying for his country. He was a model airman.

But maybe that was why he was about to do something drastic. Over the last few years, particularly he felt as a result of the situation in Iraq, he had become more and more disillusioned with what he was really doing in his life. He was sick and tired of polishing his medals and shoes, bored with the wary opinions of his superiors and colleagues of him, disgusted and sickened with the sudden anti-military movement that was seeping into culture thanks to the media. He'd had enough and he wanted out.

So when the phone call had come two nights ago, there had been no way he could refuse the offer of a lifetime. For starters the money promised was an extraordinary amount. But there had also been a strange feeling at the back of his mind that, were he to refuse this request, he would live to regret it in more ways than one.

Now, having been in the air for a good five minutes, he felt the time was right. Reaching into his jumpsuit, he removed a small black plastic case, and took from this a computer chip the same size as the one currently running through the computer of the X-542. Breathing heavily, he tapped in the number pass code on the small keypad to the left of him, and the chip popped out like a piece of toast, the word MANUAL flashing up on the screen in big red letters. Quickly, keeping one hand on the stick to stay in as much control for these few seconds as possible, Rowe placed the new chip into the tiny hole.

MANUAL disappeared, and a new GPS map took its place. It was all running smoothly at the moment. Now to report in.

'Triceratops, this is Pterodactyl. Do you read me, over?'

In less than a second the reply came through on such an unbelievably clear line Rowe could have sworn the man speaking was ion the cockpit with him.

'Pterodactyl, this is Triceratops. Good job! Stand by for further instructions; in the meantime, just sit back and enjoy the flight, over.'

* * *

Adam Hacker sat away from his computer microphone and breathed a sigh of relief. He took a sip from a half-full can of ice cold Coke before he began furiously tapping away at his wireless keyboard.

Hacker was obviously not his real name, but then that had been lost in a wonderful muddle of red tape almost ten years ago. He preferred his new name; it made him sound so much more dangerous physically than he knew he really was.

His true skill lay in computers. As a young self-confessed geek growing up in Kansas, Hacker had quickly progressed through class after class of the toughest computer courses and programmes in the world. It hadn't been long until the government had taken notice of the young man's exceptional skills. Hacker himself had wondered why it had taken them so long; after all, he had broken into the CIA's personal network at least five times before then.

At first Hacker worked for his homeland against various criminal and terrorist organisations, some he'd heard of, others he'd only recognise from various conspiracy sites on his beloved world wide web. It was there that he discovered he could make so much more money going freelance than he could as a drone for the White House.

Over the next decade, Hacker had worked with various sides in various conflicts, offering his unique services for large sums of money that finally meant he could escape the dull existence of Kansas and move to his dream home on the sunset strip. The amount of work he did meant he was hardly there a lot of the time, but this new job was different. The rewards would be immense; a salary with more zeros in it than he had ever worked for before. After this job he could retire comfortably at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.

But first he had to pull this job off, and pull it off well. He'd been living in this underground bunker for a week now, sleeping rarely and eating plenty of junk food. Though he was normally a very skinny man he could see the pounds piling on. It wasn't healthy. He blamed his nerves; he always ate when he was nervous.

Flicking a switch on the microphone now, Hacker waited as a tone began to sound on the other end of the line. It was answered quickly.

'Good afternoon, Mr Hacker. What can I do for you?'

The voice was deep and rich, the attitude incredibly pleasant. Yet it was so pleasant, so polite, that it set Hacker's teeth on edge, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood right up.

'Er…good afternoon, sir. The…er…Pterodactyl has changed his flight path onto a more beneficial one for us.'

'That is excellent news, Mr Hacker, thank you very much for telling me. Please wait a moment and I will join you shortly.'

'Yes, sir.'

As the other end went dead, Hacker was sure he heard the stifled screams of pain he had heard everyday in the background of these conversations. He shivered.

* * *

Rowe glanced out of the cockpit as the X-542 flew further and further away from its designated flight path. So far the computer chip was working; how his employees had managed to replicate it was a mystery to the pilot.

The glint of the sun on water drew his attention back to what lay ahead of him: the English Channel. This was when the Extronite fuel would be put to the test. Rowe wondered how long it would be before it would ran out. Would he even make the rendezvous point? This was the problem with the Extronite experiment: it was so hush-hush nobody was sure who knew what about it.

They would have tried to make contact many times by now, confused as to what was going wrong. The channels had been cut off, presumably by the new computer chip. Would they send planes after him? Would they alert the European authorities to shoot him down? Rowe could only imagine, as the X-542 flew high over the white chalk cliffs of Dover and on towards France.


	4. Chapter 3

Part One

Part One

X-542

3

Back on the ground, it was clear to all the invited spectators that things were not going according to plan. They had expected the X-542 to disappear at some stage, but fifteen minutes had passed and there was no sign of the state of the art fighter jet making a spectacular reappearance.

Clarke had disappeared a few minutes earlier, dragged back into the large warehouse by three panicked looking officials who were trying their best not to show that they were panicked. It had not exactly been persuasive.

'What do you think could have happened?' asked Moneypenny, as the gentle murmur which had been floating through the crowd began to transform in a more agitated state of chattering.

'Easy answer: our test pilot isn't as patriotic as his medals make him out to be,' replied Bond, keeping one eye on the frantic comings and goings of the hanger.

M calmly agreed. If there was one thing Bond had to admit admiring his superior for, it was her ability to keep a cool head in hot situations. 'However medals a man has, they aren't going to pay for that new pool extension,' she said now. 'This is a brand new revolutionary machine. I was very surprised to see as little security as there was when we arrived.'

'Yes, well, we didn't want to too much draw attention to ourselves,' explained Colonel Clarke, who had reappeared looking somewhat shaken from the chaos in the hanger. Immediately questions were hurled at him from all angles, all at the same time, all differently worded, yet all with the same basic message: what was going on? 'Yes, yes,' he struggled to say without sounding too nervous. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I can assure you that we are very much on top of the situation. Please just bare with me for one moment, and then more will be revealed, I'm sure.'

As he turned to go Bond stood up behind him and quietly said in his ear, 'Colonel, with your permission I'd like to see what's happening in the hanger. Although I've never flown anything like the X-542 before, I may be able to help with something.'

Clarke seemed to hesitate, reluctant to let an outsider enter his own work kingdom, before shrugging and motioning Bond to follow him. They crossed quickly back to the vast hanger, where Bond's eyes were greeted with the sight of almost pandemonium. A large crowd of white coated people were huddled together by the computer screens, each giving a completely different opinion of what should be done. Several others were hurrying from to and fro, talking on mobile phones or scribbling down almost illegible notes on scraps of paper, which were passed back to the larger group and read out as part of other suggestions.

'I hate working with scientists' muttered Clarke through gritted teeth. 'No discipline among the lot of them.' He led Bond to the computers where, after clearing the majority of the white coats to one side, the two men were left with the single solitary nervous coffee drinker who Bond had noticed when first arriving half an hour ago. He was introduced to Bond as Colin Huxley, a man who had worked in close relationship with Professor Extron on the designs of the X-542. Bond asked him to fill him in on every little detail he had witnessed since the take off of the fighter jet.

'Well, we started smoothly; it couldn't have been better. The computer chip was working perfectly, everything was running like clockwork. Then we had an indication that Lt Rowe had switched to manual, which was nothing to be alarmed about, because we knew he was planning on doing that at some point during the demonstration. But then the chip is replaced, and we're back to the same, perfect readings we had before. Except…'

'Except the X-542 is going in completely the wrong direction,' Bond finished for him. 'You're sure there's no chance it could be a fault on the chip, or the on board computer itself? Maybe even your computer?'

Huxley shook his head. 'I've spent the last year looking over the same procedures, the same figures, over and over again with Professor Extron. I know it all off by heart and backwards. I recite it instead of singing in the shower. It doesn't make sense, sir. That plane simply can't be going in the direction it is, not with the guidance chip in its system.'

'You said you didn't want to raise attention, so you purposefully went for little security?' Bond asked Clarke, who was noticeably sweating and looked badly in need of a stiff drink.

'If we'd had as much security as normal we'd have drawn in every Tom, Dick and Harry in the local area. And news spreads fast – within hours we'd have had other "enthusiasts" on our doorsteps.'

'So you haven't had any side effects from the lack of security? No unwanted guests?'

'Nobody,' replied Clarke. 'I've been living here for a week now in preparation, and slept soundly every night. Nobody unauthorised could have gone near the X-542.'

Bond cursed silently. He didn't like the sound of that; it suggested there was a mole somewhere, and that meant a seriously bad lapse of military security. 'Do you know where it's flying now?' he asked Huxley, who looked at all computer screens plus a read out that was been fed from the printer every five seconds.

Finally the scientist said, 'I don't quite believe this, but apparently she's just crossed over to France!'

'What's the fuel situation like?'

Huxley scratched his neck. 'We gave her enough to last the test flight, plus a little extra as mandatory procedure. But she's been going faster than normal, burning up a lot of Extronite. That taken into account…I don't know how she's still up in the air!'

* * *

Neither did Rowe. He tried to push the tiny thoughts of alarm to the back of his brain and focus on the reward that he would get when this whole ordeal was over. He had also been promised a genuine escape route into a far off distant country of his choice. He'd immediately opted for Jamaica.

Admittedly he had been given very little information by the people who had contacted him. They had told him to trust what would be put on the computer chip, and that their men would handle every other detail regarding the jet. How they'd managed to make any modifications on this secret project was, though tempting to be curious about, none of his concern. He had asked at the time where exactly he would be taken to, but the emphasis had apparently been on secrecy, so they couldn't even tell him that.

Various towns, cities and villages went by underneath him as the X-542 continued its never ending journey. Rowe kept himself mildly amused by trying to spot the Eiffel Tower to help him work out how close to Paris he was. At other times he half-wondered whether he had flown into another European country and not realised it, not having the obvious marker of a border check point to physically cross through.

A loud, clear voice through his headphones woke him from his thoughts. 'Pterodactyl, this is Triceratops, over.'

'Go ahead, Triceratops, reading you loud and clear, over.'

'Good. I have T-Rex here beside me, he'd like a word with you, over.'

Now Rowe's attention was fully directed on the conversation. T-Rex…he had heard that name before, in his initial conversations with this organisation. Was this another code name for security reasons?

A new voice came through the headphones; it was a rich, deep voice. 'Pterodactyl, this is T-Rex. Good afternoon, sir. How are you, over?'

'T-Rex, I'm doing reasonably well for a man who hasn't a clue where he's flying, over.'

There was a light chuckle before T-Rex replied, 'Ah, yes. On behalf of my organisation may I be the first to give you my deepest apologies over what must be a most frustrating assignment? I hope you can forgive us, over.'

'Er…sure, no problem,' said Rowe, taken aback by the sudden display of good manners that he had not heard since childhood. 'Though I would like to know how much longer this is going to take. I'm worried about the fuel situation, over.'

'Of course, and again, my apologies. It may please you to know that according to my friend's numbers here, it should not be very much longer. As for the fuel situation, please try not to worry so much. I have it on good authority that the Extronite in your fuel tank is good to go for a very long time still, over.'

'But….that doesn't make sense…' Rowe began to protest, more puzzled than ever.

'Now I'm afraid that from this point onwards we will be unable to communicate much further due to some rather tiresome security hurdles, so I wanted to speak to you now and say thank you properly. Thank you Pterodactyl, for all that you have done; it means a lot to us. Enjoy the rest of your flight, over and out.'

'No, wait, wait!' cried Rowe, but it was too late. The line was dead. He was left to his own thoughts in the now stuffy cockpit of the X-542, where more and more suspicions and frightening half-ideas began to invade his mind and started to make him sweat a lot more than he had been.


	5. Chapter 4

Part One

Part One

X-542

4

Fiona Häber was dying for a cigarette. After weeks and weeks of her fifth attempt to quit, the thirty-six year old programmer found that she was simply not handling the pressure well.

Picking up a folder and some random files to make it seem like she was on official work business, she walked quickly over to one of the five other members of the Maschenheim Satellite Centre team, Josef Douse, a hard worker who was a notorious chain smoker when out of work hours. He was idly writing figures down on a lined sheet, doing as little work as possible while the supervisor was out getting a coffee.

Bending down low to whisper in his ear, Fiona tried to put on the gentlest voice she could without her craving for tobacco becoming too obvious. 'Josef, I need a really big favour.'

'What might that be?' he asked, still concentrating on how slowly he could write the number "8".

'I need a smoke. Please, Josef!' she added as he rolled his eyes in frustration. 'Just one small cigarette and I'm out of your way fro the rest of the afternoon, I promise!'

Douse put down his pen and looked into her pleading eyes. 'And what happened to, "This time, no turning back", hmm? Where did Miss "No more cigarettes ever again" vanish too?'

Fiona stood up straight. 'I know, I know, I'm an easy quitter, but this is the longest I've ever been without even a sniff of the stuff. Surely that's something?'

Douse leaned back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. 'And what exactly is in it for me?'

'For one cigarette? A pleasant "thank you" and no more whining for the rest of the day.'

Douse shook his head. 'I'm going to need more than that, Fiona. After all, the exchange rate is going up, so I don't see why mine shouldn't…'

Fiona sighed. 'Fine. You can buy me a drink after work – one drink, mind, and nothing so strong that I wake up in your disgusting apartment next to your smelly dog and you.'

Douse reached into his pocket. 'You drive a hard bargain, but I guess that will have to do for now.'

He handed her a thin, white cigarette, which Fiona grabbed eagerly, thanked him hurriedly again, and made her way through the various security passes towards the fire exit.

Outside she lit the paper with a shaky hand holding a shaky match, drew a deep drag of it and exhaled blissfully. She knew it was wrong, that it was unhealthy, that it did her social life no wonders whatsoever, but she had been like a slave to tobacco since her first illicit puff back in school at the tender age of thirteen. Back then she would probably never have imagined she'd wind up in such a dump like this. She would still have been dreaming of instant stardom as a singer or an actress or a model. But she couldn't hold a tune to save her life, had trouble learning lines, and had been frequently been told she looked like the back end of various farm animals.

In the end, there was nothing special about Maschenheim, same as Fiona felt there was nothing special about her. Nearly all the time the work done there was standard procedure, and never anything to get excited about when waking up in the mornings. Everything just felt so ordinary. The one time, the only time that year that there had been a general buzz about the place, had been after a very special visit by a top army general. As luck would have had it, Fiona had been off sick that day with a horrible cold, and since that initial visit, it seemed that nothing had come out of it in the end.

The sky above was fairly clear, with one or two traces of white cloud hanging loosely on either side. As Fiona finished the last puff of the cigarette, she thought she could see a tiny speck appear, which very quickly began to get bigger. There was also a bizarre whining sound that seemed to come just off of the horizon. Curious, Fiona watched the shape grow into focus.

* * *

By now a fairly large crowd of onlookers had assembled in the warehouse. Colonel Clarke had had to admit to the invited guests, whose impatience and speculative nattering had increased rapidly, that the test flight of the X-542 was not going at all to plan. Now Bond and he were joined by, among others, M and Edward Lee.

The Minister for Defence looked surprisingly calm and collected as the crisis grew, though if you looked closely, noticed Bond, you could just make out a slight nervous twitching of his nose.

It had been at least forty minutes since take off and it seemed that it would take as long as that to try and get hold of someone in France whose priority this was. By the time someone had finally answered the phone in the right department the X-542 had crossed its third border and entered German airspace.

Colin Huxley was literally tearing his hair out, frantically typing every code that was apparently in the manual and out of it; anything to regain control. But it was no good, as he frequently made the rest of the assembly aware.

'I can't do a thing,' he repeated brokenly. 'It's the chip, it's faulty, it must be, it _must_ be!'

Then M, who had been watching the drama unfold silently, with those sharp eyes of hers, said quietly, 'Colonel, is it me or is that plane getting faster?'

Clarke looked searchingly at Huxley, who refrained from typing to check the readings on both printout and computer screen.

'She's right,' he replied finally, too panicked to show etiquette to the Head of the Secret Service. 'She's bloody right; it's going faster…and faster…'

There was nothing any of them could do, except continue to watch.

* * *

There was nothing that Sean Rowe could do either. His growing paranoia becoming more and more justified as the X-542's speed increased and its nose began to dip, he lost his nerve and tried to eject the computer chip. His reward for this belatedly noble action was a sharp electric shock from a booby trapped console – how it had been booby trapped while in mid-air he had no idea.

The X-542 went faster and faster, its descent more and more obvious with a harrowing whine of its engines. As the fighter jet broke through the clouds and Rowe had his first proper look at where he was headed, he knew all was lost. In a futile attempt to save himself, because he could think of nothing else to do, he held his arms across his face and screamed.

* * *

There was nothing that Fiona Häber could do either. She could have made an attempt to run but it would have been useless; either way she would be caught in the blast. She couldn't move anyway; she was frozen on the spot with fear, a ghostly white, trembling mess. Unlike Rowe she couldn't make a noise to scream; it was stuck in her throat.

As she watched the strange plane come nearer and nearer, closer and closer, her last thought was of how relieved she was that she wouldn't have to go out with Josef that evening after all.

Her death, like Rowe's and many of her colleagues, was too quick to be felt. The X-542 plunged into the building, sending debris of brick and glass everywhere, before a massive explosion engulfed the scene in bright hot flame that spread quickly and ferociously. A thick pillar of smoke began to rise steadily into the sky.

The X-542 had fallen.


	6. Chapter 5

Part One

Part One

X-542

5

The tattooed man stood on the hill and watched the madness unfold.

It had been at least an hour since the X-542 had flown into Maschenheim Satellite Centre. Already a large group of paramedics and rescue workers, including policemen, firemen and willing volunteers from the larger group of spectators, were beginning to douse the flames of the wreckage and start to move some of the lighter rubble on the outskirts of the crash site. A small group of news cameras had already arrived, both local and international, with various attractive looking reporters looking as stone faced as possible whilst relating the known facts into their microphones.

The "tragic accident" had been loud enough to have heard in the larger nearby city of Muinch, but the effect in Maschenheim had been extraordinary. The blast had blown nearly all the windows in every building out. People going about their daily routines in the streets had been knocked down onto the ground by the force of it. When they had had time to recover, no one could help but notice the thick, billowing black smoke that issued from the area of the town's only real claim to fame

Some people now in the crowds that were gathering were letting the drama get to the better of them; they had begun to cry loudly, or argue bitterly with one another over the simplest of matters. Overall one single question remained: why?

The tattooed man, safely behind a pair of thick green binoculars, watched as finally, the last flame was put out by a strong spray of water from a wide hose carried by three people. Keeping the binoculars to his expressionless face, he reached into the pocket of his thick green army trousers and pulled out a mobile phone, on which he dialled the numbers 81739. Within two seconds he was answered; the voice on the other end was as clear as if the man were standing right behind him.

'This is Hacker. Got your message. Give me a second…okay, you're good to go. The boss wants you back here in twenty four hours – oh, and bring an umbrella 'cos it ain't stopped raining since you left. Hacker out.'

The line went dead. The tattooed man carefully put the phone back into his pocket, and then refocused the lenses of the binoculars so that the image he got seemed a lot closer to the action than he really was. Slowly, without rushing, his left middle finger crept over the top of the binoculars and found a chunky but small green button. The finger waited for three seconds…three…two…one…then pressed down hard.

There was a short, sharp bang from the middle of wreckage, but if anyone had been startled initially by the noise they had no time to show it. A thousand small nails and needles flew out into the open and down into each of the separate groups.

There was instant pandemonium. Some were caught worse than others by the vicious storm; the nails were embedded deep, their cries of pain more surprised than anything else. The people at the back of the group began to run away, back to the relative safety of Maschenheim, frightened for their own lives, for what else could be hidden within the wreckage?

The tattooed man watched without any sign of pleasure, guilt or regret. He just watched: watched the bloody victims stumble about, crying for help or aid; watched the paramedics caught completely off guard by the attack running around trying to sort out the most wounded from the least; watched the news cameras continue to film the horrific scenes, whether they had an operator or not; watched the reporters, on the ground as low as they could be, trying to make some sense out of the scene in front of them and put it into comprehensible words.

The tattooed man replaced the binoculars in the large case by his side and, turning his back on the chaos, walked down the path towards a green jeep that was waiting on the road below.


End file.
